Eu2O3
by v2point0
Summary: Sherlock and John are enjoying some well earned rest. Until the cat comes in. Established!Sherlock/John


**Title**: Eu2O3  
**Rating**: PG-13  
**Warnings**: (mild) profanity, mild sexuality (no sex, not even kissing, just some spooning)  
**Summary**: BBC _Sherlock_. Sherlock and John are enjoying some well earned rest. Until the cat comes in. Established!Sherlock/John  
**A/N**: I don't know if I'm mixing up prompts, but, some time ago **nickel_curry** drew me a picture of my two OCs, Simon and Ever. If I'm wrong, someone ought to tell me. But anyway! To show my gratitude, I offered fic. She asked for Sherlock and John adopting a stray black, blue eyed (precisely) kitten. This story has two drafts; I kicked the former because it felt tedious, and went with the latter, which is this. So, I hope you like. Massive thanks go to **puffintalk** for helping to beta. \o/ Not necessarily Britpicked, so if something seems "non-Brity", oops.  
**Disclaimer**: I own nothing. Well, maybe the cat.

* * *

John had always hated cranberry salad. For no reason whatsoever, he simply hated it. Not like it was unusual for people to hate a type of food for no specific reason, anyway. His was cranberry salad. Currently, he was surrounded by it. Big, big bowls of cranberry salad, two times his own height. Harry was there, sitting adjacent of him, eating a small bowl in the same fashion a starved ancient nomad would. She never blinked her unwavering glare upon her little brother as she stuffed the salad down her throat, letting it drip and drool mindlessly down her face.

"... hn."

Once, an Afghan woman, who had offered shelter and food for John and his troops, told him dreams are not just simple jumbles of images tossed like leaves in the wind. Rather, it was the subconscious speaking to you, in a way only it knew how. To the subconscious, all of it made sense, but to the rational mind, all it received was loud, erratic pictures and noises. She took a bite of her apple, let the juice spill from her lips as she told her guests dying in a dream could symbolize wanting to change yourself, to become someone new, someone reborn.

"... John."

Yet, John found it hard to believe cranberry salad had any mystifying, subliminal message behind it. His sister's presence might make some sense. He tried talking to her, but she wouldn't respond, just munched and munched on that Godawful cranberry and lettuce concoction.

"John, stop dreaming about cranberry salad."

Instantly, the world turned to an eerie, ghostly white, as if he was staring down that fateful tunnel of light. A moment later, John's senses slowly caught up with him. Eyes cracked open, the light fading, a painting of his room's ceiling above him. There was light here, but soft, and the sound of breathing, very gentle and quiet. John stretched and yawned, mind rebooting itself into consciousness. Half way into rolling his neck, he paused, blinked bleary eyes then turned his head, looking into the pale face of Sherlock Holmes. He noted he looked relaxed, reasonably awake, save the slight crease in his brows displaying some agitation.

"How did you know I was dreaming about cranberry salad?" John mumbled, tugging the blanket further up his chest.

"You always make that face when you see cranberry salad, but that's not why I woke you," Sherlock grumbled. His eyes rolled to the corners. "The cat is sleeping on my head."

John blinked again, wiping away sleep dust. He sat up slowly, peered over Sherlock's long body, stretched out on John's bed on his side. Sure enough, there was a little ball of black fur, nearly camouflaged in the mess of Sherlock's shaggy hair. It gave itself away with the soft rising of its chest and quiet humming purr. John smiled, half crooked and tired, and laid carefully back onto his side, facing the other man. "It would appear your deduction was absolutely spot on, as usual," he teased.

"Get her off my head," Sherlock snorted. He did not move, not an inch, just like some breathing, living statue.

"She looks comfortable," John insisted. "You should know by now she's practically obsessed with your hair."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "Yes, _well_ aware." Twice now, the kitten had showed its affection for the human's mess of black hair.

Once, fresh from a shower, Sherlock had taken seat on the sofa, book propped against his bent knees. She came suddenly, rubbing her face and head into his still wet hair; he did not mind, lost in his book, until she started practically slamming her head into his. Just as Sherlock went to shoo her away, she suddenly _bit down_, the edges of her tiny kitten canines scraping along his scalp. The second time, Sherlock had been stretched out on the sofa, head resting on the armrest, fingers steeple to his lips as he soaked in the nicotine from the patches along his arms, piecing together all the information of today's difficult case - When suddenly paws and claws were swatting at his hair, one of the nails leaving a shallow cut on the shell of his ear.

Strangely enough, John's hair did not have the same effect on the cat as his did. "She probably thinks it's her mum," John teased. She was all jet black, the same hue as Sherlock's hair.

"Ridiculous," Sherlock spat, though he was aware it was something of a joke. He had just been in the middle of long needed sleep when he was woken to the sudden pressure against the back of his head. "It is a natural and common habit of cats. Kittens, for example, develop it as a form of accepting one another; it is in response to their mothers cleaning them before they first open their eyes. It also is a sign of trust, affection, and desire to play."

"... Did you just happen to have this information 'on file' or did you do some recent research?"

"I find an air of mystery is more attractive to certain peoples," Sherlock replied, his eyebrows giving a slight quirk.

John just laughed. "Right," he smirked, softly, "but I still think your hair being her mother is the more interesting theory."

"Interesting, but ridiculous, and will you _get_ her off my _head_," Sherlock grumbled, cheek twitching. "The warm spot is rather awkward and uncomfortable."

John shrugged in the blanket. "If you wake her, you know she'll start whining."

Sherlock squinted. "While you may not be subjected to her fondness for playing with and consuming human hair," he grunted, "it can all become rather irritating. Like now, for instance."

John rolled his eyes. "All right," he mumbled, sitting up. He carefully reached over, giving the little ball a poke. "Euro," he said, "up." The kitten made a small mewl, her head jerking up and eyes opening to uneven slits. She yawned, small pink tongue curling, then looked to John, a stray white hair across her face appearing like a mustache. He carefully picked her up, bent over the side of the bed, and sat her down. "Go on, then. You have your own bed, you know." He gently patted her forward, toward the old, worn pillow on the floor.

Europium, or Euro, stood there, looking up at the human as he rolled back onto the bed. Sherlock had turned onto his back, hand sweeping through his cowlicked hair. "No more fussing?" John snorted.

"Why did you give her that name?"

"Euro?"

"I mean, I know why, and yet." Sherlock's eyebrows tucked forward. "_Why_."

John shrugged, rolling his head back, until both men were staring up at the ceiling. "Dunno," he answered. "I guess it just fit at the time."

"She got on the table, knocked over a glass of water, then proceeded to knock over my bowl of Europium oxide - _right into the water_," Sherlock scowled, John hiding half his smile and soft chuckle behind a hand, "if she weren't a cat, I would almost say it was all premeditated."

"I doubt she would intentionally piss you off," John chortled. "You did supply her temporary shelter with the hole in your room's wall." That was where John had found her that morning, woken suddenly, much like today, to soft whining and whimpering that led him into his flatmate's bedroom. The hole in the wall had not been intentional, either, but it had gone deep enough for the kitten to weasel its way inside. John frowned, expression lighthearted in mocked confusion. "Or," he suggested, "she was unaware of your reactions and threats to skin her alive and/or use her lungs for a specific strand of URTI?"

Sherlock steepled his hands to his lips. "Specific threats work only on trained animals," he noted, "otherwise I could just yell 'oatmeal' at her repeatedly in the same furious tone and she would process it as a death threat."

John laughed, closing his eyes. "What time is it anyway?" he sniffed, turning his head to the clock on the small nightstand. The burning red digits read '6:50'. John groaned, crossing his arms over his eyes. "Bloody Hell. I've got an hour, and you wake me just to complain about the cat sleeping on your head."

"You once claimed a pet is not too unlike a child," Sherlock responded, calmly, "to both you and I. We share equal responsibilities in her care. So, if I must suffer because of her, then so must you."

John groaned. "You..."

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, eyes feigning hurt. "It's only fair, right?" He turned back with a smarmy grin, fingers still pressed together. John gave a grumpy scowl and flipped on his side, back to the taller man who barely fit his bed, blanket yanked to his ears. "I may add," Sherlock continued, "the decision to keep the cat was left to you."

"Yes, and I _do_ take care of her," John muttered, "the _only_ one, mind you, who does."

"False."

At that, John flipped onto his side, glared tiredly at his partner. "Oh, since _when_?" he snapped. "I'm the one who buys her food and litter; feeds, bathes her; cleans her litter box."

"I clean the litter box."

"Once!"

"I fed her."

"Expired eggs still in the shell!"

Sherlock remained relaxed. "Yet you deny I have not taken care of her?" he inquired. "Though I may have gone about the latter incorrectly, it still counts. Two examples you do not deny. Therefore," he reclined back his head, "I _have_ also taken care of her."

John ran a hand down his face. "That's not... I'm the one..." The words would not come, John's brain still lagging. He ended up just turning on his back, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Well, the litter box - you managed that well. Perhaps you can do it again. Maybe we can swap off duties."

"When I next have an experiment requiring cat feces, I shall."

John's eyes flew open, fingers still squeezing nose. "Wait, what?" He blinked. "Is that why you cleaned her litter box?"

The corners of Sherlock's bland frown drew lower, something mocking. "It might have been a deciding factor," he hummed.

"Can't believe it."

"It got done."

John wondered why he hadn't just left the kitten at a shelter. She was so tiny, underweight, eyes crusted with goop. Her black fur was still a little damp from the rain outside, but at least it was safe from fleas and mites. She shivered like some newborn calf, a bundle of nerves and confusion. Yet those big blue eyes, so much like marbles, they somehow charmed him from letting her go. Instead of leaving her to the shelter, the vet gave him some drops for her eyes and an hour later, John returned with both her and a bag of food.

Sherlock had been rather quiet on the subject. Mrs. Hudson had no policy on small animals, as long as they stayed in their respective flats, didn't make much noise or cause any trouble. She had even recommended a type of fragrant, clumping cat litter to John, not entirely to help him out, but to insist he keep it clean and the place from smelling like piss.

Eventually, Sherlock had agreed the cat could stay, as long as it remained under John's care and watch, as well as in his room. The last thing he needed was a cat going through all his things like those idiots at the Yard, making a mess of his own organized little messes.

Somehow, weeks later, Europium sort of went from John's cat to _their_ cat. Sherlock was still not sure how or why, but she was out and about more often than locked in the doctor's room. Beyond the incident that earned her her name, Europium had not been much trouble since.

"I'm going back to sleep," John said during the momentary silence. He meant to turn on his side until a flash of black crossed his eyes and sudden surprise weight was on his crotch, giving him a quick jolt. Grunting, he and Sherlock, albeit the latter more blandly, looked down at his chest. Europium stood, meowed between them. "No, back to your bed, you." He gently swatted her off the mattress, only for her to return, back on his crotch (much to his dismay) with another, louder mewl.

John moaned. "It starts," he hissed, pushing the cat off his groin. She meowed but went with the push. "Sherlock, get up and feed her." He pulled up the blanket again, Europium still half on his legs, mewling. Sherlock did not respond. "Sherlock." Still no response or movement, save for Europium padding at his feet, whining. John cracked an eye; Sherlock was awake, his eyes were open, staring down at his hands. "_Sherlock_."

"What." It was not a question. Sherlock stayed stiff in place, eyes unblinking, unmoving from his hands.

"Did you hear me?" John sighed in unison with the cat's mewl. "Go feed Euro, or she's going to keep crying."

Sherlock finally turned his head, glared at his flatmate. "Is it such an impossible task that you cannot do it yourself?" he demanded.

"You're not doing anything."

"You _would_ think that."

John slapped a hand on the mattress. Europium meowed. "Well, you can stop _thinking_ for one minute and get her some food," he insisted. He didn't see Sherlock roll his eyes. He muttered, "I need sleep, I've got work, you, so far, do not," and slammed his eyes closed.

Sherlock still remained in place, if the lack of movement or its accompanying noises were any indications. John's need for more sleep overpowered his irritation, and he started to drift back off. However, Europium meowed. Twice. Then again. And again. And again and again and again and- John sat up, snarled, "Sherlock, _feed the bloody cat_!"

Sherlock scowled. "Go to sleep, John."

"I'm trying!" John whined, on the edge of ripping out his hair. "I deal with your violin screeching, I would really rather avoid anymore obnoxious whining when I'm trying to sleep!"

Europium mewled, John snarled into his hands, and Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Before your blood pressure gets any higher," he snorted, standing. He was stark naked, unabashed in his nudity as he dragged his feet around the bed. Not as if either man were blushing virgins; John had seen him naked plenty of times, even outside the bedroom. The doctor massaged his temples, relaxing when Europium leaped from the bed, chasing after Sherlock with excited mews.

"_Merde_!"

John opened his eyes at the sudden grunt and thunk of clumsy feet. Lowering his hands from his face, he squinted at the naked detective glaring at Europium. "Did you - did you just curse in French?" he inquired, genuinely intrigued.

"She nearly tripped me, bloody beast," Sherlock growled. Europium did not seem bothered, still wrapping around his ankles, purring and meowing. John just smiled and laid back. Sherlock picked the bag of food out of the closet, turning it down on the empty glass bowl.

"Not too much," John warned, a muffle against his pillow, "fill about half way."

"_Je m'en fous_," Sherlock spat, dumping the food into the bowl.

"French? What'd she do now?"

Sherlock did not answer, just watched the cat dive into her bowl, devouring her food eagerly. He gave a small lift of a brow before throwing the bag back into the closet and made his way to bed, idly scratching his hip. With Europium content, he practically collapsed gracelessly, the mattress jumping, before rolling onto his side and spooning against John. John wiggled, getting comfortable as one arm threw itself over his side, a ridiculously long leg forcing itself under the blanket and between John's. The man could be cold, distant and then, like a flip of a coin, practically suffocating.

Not that John minded. Especially when it was in the middle of a rather brutal winter.

John sighed and sunk into the mattress, the pillow, the blanket, and Sherlock's languid embrace. The sound of Europium's soft crunch-crunch of food lulled him to sleep.

* * *

IIII

* * *

Instead of finding himself back in a room full of giant cranberry salads and his frightening, Neanderthal looking sister, John's dream fell into something of a memory. It was Sherlock's first time interacting, touching Europium. They had both been watching TV, John sitting in the recliner with Europium stretched out on the arm rest along her belly beside him. Sherlock laid on the sofa, in between thinking and casting half-thoughtful looks at the news. At the time, his eyes were shut, head resting back on a throw pillow.

Europium had stood, arched her back then stretched out her legs. With a big yawn, she jumped from her resting spot. John hadn't paid her any mind, figured she needed to use the bathroom or eat. Instead, very casually, Europium strode over to the sofa, jumped on the arm rest next to Sherlock's feet then climbed onto his stomach. John had still not noticed, even as she walked along the detective's chest; Sherlock opened his eyes, looked down, watched as the cat simply laid down and stared at him with half-lidded eyes.

Sherlock had not reacted. He simply observed. She yawned again, and he could smell the fish of her kibbles on her breath. She stretched her neck, little nostrils flaring open and closed as she sniffed his chin, her whiskers still growing out. He could feel one of them tickle against his skin, corner of his lip twitching. Europium, content, started to knead then, little claws picking at the fabric of his gown as the paws pushed and rubbed. Her purring grew louder, like a dull rattle in her throat, half-open eyes blinking closer and closer to shutting completely.

These details would later be filled in by Sherlock himself. John had broken out of his daze the moment a commercial flipped on, standing to get himself something to drink. He had gone to ask Sherlock if he needed anything, freezing half-erect with wide, surprised eyes at the sight. Sherlock laid perfectly in place, just as he had been the past hour, but Europium was fast asleep on his chest - and one of his long fingered hands was spread over her back, moving just barely in a phantom caress.

The detective's eyes were closed, and for a moment, John was torn between fetching the cat as quietly as possible or giving Sherlock a poke. "I'm not asleep, and yes, water is fine," Sherlock mumbled, the fatigue deepening his all ready baritone voice. His eyes remained shut, and it wasn't a shock that he was actually awake, for a man who looked completely unconscious - but rather he _knew_ the cat was on him, he _knew_ his hand was on her...

"All-all right then," John swallowed, still hesitant. Europium's tail thumped against Sherlock's stomach, but no more movement came from either of them. With a quirky, albeit baffled grin, John made his way to the kitchen.

John was semi-aware that perhaps this wasn't a dream, perhaps his mind was simply walking the line between sleep and consciousness. The world appeared in a dream-like state, but it was all very real. Not too big a surprise he couldn't get back to sleep, but damn if he wasn't going to keep trying. John kept his eyes closed, noting the slight pressure from Sherlock's arm had been lifted. He turned carefully onto his other side - to meet a faceful of hair.

It wasn't unusual; John had found himself waking up with his face tangled in the detective's hair. Once, he even had a strand caught in his throat the entire morning. That was quite embarrassing and annoying. John had went to mumble for Sherlock to scoot away an inch or two, or at least turn around, when he noticed - felt - this hair was much shorter, all together not the same feel of -

John drew back just in time to sneeze loudly. There came a terrified hiss and Europium leaped up on all fours, swiping a paw back at John's face. One tiny claw caught his cheek; it felt like a pinprick, but stung like a bitch, the doctor half-gasping, half-snarling as he jerked aside. Going by pure adrenaline and shock induced reaction, John had forgotten he was at the edge of the bed, all his suddenly shifting weight throwing him over the side and onto the floor with a loud thud and grunt.

He laid there for a moment, blinking, staring at the ceiling from a much lower view. John's mind was racing, unable to truly process what the _fuck_ just happened. His hand moved to his cheek, touched the searing cut and drew back; blood, but only a droplet.

"And yet you insist on us sharing your bed, when mine is not only only larger, but fit for two grown men."

John grumbled, fingers digging into the mattress as he hoisted himself to a sit. He glared over the bed at Europium, who was still a little shaken up. Sherlock was still laying on his side, the long white expanse of his back clear as moonlight to his floored flatmate. The cat trotted carefully forward, stretched out her head and sniffed at John with her bewildered eyes.

"Yes, well, I'd rather not sleep in what may turn out to be a deathtrap," John scowled and pulled himself back onto the mattress. His eyes caught the clock - 7:15. John groaned and threw up the blankets, Europium jumping to stand on Sherlock's side. He was going to get the rest of his extra sleep, dammit; John pulled the blankets over him, until his head was just barely peeking out the top.

It took a good few minutes, but at last, John had drifted back into a state of slumber.

For five minutes.

"John. She's on my head again."

* * *

END

**A/N:  
Eu2O3/Europium**: I don't like science/chemistry. :V But I went with this anyway. Google it, uguu.  
**Cats eating hair**: One of my cats does this, and it's fairly common. ehow has a good article about it.  
**French profanity**: Merde is "shit," and je m'en fous is "I don't give a fuck." It's canonical Sherlock speaks French, I can only assume he does in the BBC version as well.

I'm not really satisfied with my Sherlock, and to be honest, so far all the Sherlock fics I've written feel a bit poor and below my average. :/ I dunno, but that's how it feels. In any case, I do hope you readers have at least enjoyed it!


End file.
